


For My Blood Calls To Your Heart

by SadieHerondale



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, And a surprise - Freeform, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anniversary, Bickering, Death, Domino!Derek, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Marvel Universe, a lot of people get shot bc deadpool and domino, deadpool!stiles, that's new to me but I think I did okay, the voices in deadpool/stiles' head are called boxes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 18:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7325056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadieHerondale/pseuds/SadieHerondale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>We are NOT lighting the bodies on fire.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	For My Blood Calls To Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> _Voice In Stiles' Head #1_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Voice In Stiles' Head #2**
> 
>  
> 
> (interactions between Stiles and Sadie)
> 
>  
> 
> Honestly I'm not sure what this is.

Okay, so maybe deciding to take a job scheduled on their anniversary wasn’t Stiles’ best idea, but in his defense, it’s a pretty quick one, compared to some of his other jobs in the past.

_Come on. Drugs? On our anniversary? Where’s the class? The romance?_

**It’s probably because these dipshits don’t know our calendar, idiot. No one cares about** **_us_ ** **.**

_Well, we’re fabulous, and Derek seems to think so too, usually._

“Y-You--” the dealer stutters, reeling back and falling on his ass.

Stiles doesn’t relish the fear in his eyes, okay? He _doesn’t._

_You do._

**You totally do.**

“Okay, would you two kindly _shut the fuck up!_ ” he roars at the air, putting a bullet in the confused man’s head. He hoists the body over his shoulders, trying to avoid dripping blood and mashed brains all over his ass. (Enjoy that mental image, reader.)

_I’m just saying, a little romance would be nice._

**Romance would be better if we had candles instead of bodies.**

_We are NOT lighting the bodies on fire._

“Nah, that’ll attract too much attention,” Stiles mutters. “But if it’s romance you want…”

He was waiting for dinner, but… He thinks about it and does some quick calculations in his head before getting Derek on the comm. “Deadpool to Domino, come in Domino. Huston, I have a question.”

“Shut the fuck up, Stilinski.” Derek’s voice crackles angrily into his ear. “The nickname thing isn’t cute right now.”

Stiles pouts. “Aw, baby, are you still mad at me?”

“What’s your fucking question.” It’s a statement rather than a request for information but Stiles is used to this sort of thing by now and takes it in stride. (And you are too aren’t you, reader? Of course you are. Carry on.)

“How many were we assigned again?”

Derek sighs at the other end, and sadly it’s not a _Stiles you’re so dreamy and gorgeous let’s never fight_ sigh; it’s more of a _Stiles you took this fucking job at least remember what it is for fuck’s sake_ sigh.

**Well, I mean… You DO remember, you’re just fact checking.**

_No, he just doesn’t remember._

**Would it kill you to be positive once in a while?**

_Says the box that was trying to light bodies on fire a second ago._

“Thirty one. You’ve gotten five and I’ve taken down three.” Derek sounds less than pleased that he’s telling Stiles this, which is totally understandable. Stiles supposes that double booking an anniversary is worse than forgetting it, so he gets why Derek is more snippy than usual today.

There are two quick shots from the other end of the comm. “Make that five.”

Stiles holds out a hand quickly, as if Derek could see him. “Okay, okay, Mister Trigger-Happy. You’re done for the day. I need twenty one more kills, so you just sit back and relax for a few, ‘kay?”

**Please. As if that’s gonna--**

“Yeah okay, whatever.”

**Holy shit it worked.**

_Shit, that means he’s more angry than we thought._

**Stiles, you better fix this. We like this one.**

“Fuck what _you_ like you little shits,” he mutters darkly. “ _I_ like this one, so he’s staying. It has nothing to do with you.”

He dumps Body Number Five into the pile he’s accumulated under a secluded overhang before heading back out into the fray.

Two of the idiots are standing out in the open, holding machine guns. Stiles wags his finger at them. “Now boys, don’t you know that those things are dangerous? Why, you could shoot your eye out!”

 _“Chingate, pendejo,”_ one of the men calls out before letting bullets fly.

“My thoughts exactly,” Derek laughs bitterly from the comms. “You’re gonna want your Beretta for this one, Stiles.”

Stiles gets the guy with his Magnum, and manages to get his partner too, but not before they get a couple of lucky shots in.

“Holy fucking Jesus eating shit,” he grits his teeth to avoid (very manly) screams from coming out of his mouth as he digs the red-hot bullets from his side, arm, and thigh with his fingers. “You know Derek? I think-- _shitfuckshit_ \--I figured that one out myself. But thanks-- _shit_ \--anyway, lover.”

**He doesn’t even sound worried anymore.**

_Well duh. We’ll be fine in a second and he knows it._

**A little concern would still be nice.**

Once the bullets are out and the flesh knits itself back together, Stiles shoves the Magnum back in its holster unceremoniously and grabs two of his Berettas.

“Alright you dicks,” he mutters to no one, “Now you’ve pissed me off.”

He leaves the bodies where they are, not bothering to move them to the body pile this time. Instead he goes on the hunt.

The warehouse has stacks of plastic-covered _things_ everywhere and the walls are a nasty shade of grey (but only one shade. Fifty would have been a really tacky design choice). Once Stiles gets those two and makes sure they’re dead, there’s dead silence. He catches movement in his peripheral vision and spins toward it, looking him in the eye and aiming his barrel directly at the man’s forehead.

“You know, Number Seven,” he says conversationally, his grip on the gun tightening, “I’ve had a pretty shitty day. I had this whole thing planned out with romance and shit, even got candles and a reservation and the most adorable lingerie that I was _this close_ to getting my boyfriend to wear, but then you people showed up.”

Number Seven’s eyes flick to Stiles’s left, and Stiles uses his other hand to shoot Number Eight.

“And to make matters worse, your buddies thought it would be a good idea to shoot at me!” Stiles continues with bitter cheer. “On my anniversary!”

There are several sets of footsteps coming from behind him, so he slams his foot down on Number Seven’s kneecaps, hearing a sickening _crunch_ as the man goes down. “Stay.”

_Well he’s definitely not going anywhere. Look at him._

**I would say it’s pathetic, but broken kneecaps hurt like a bitch, poor guy.**

_No regrets._

**Nope.**

There are no less than thirteen guys headed his way, and each one of them seems to be armed with a semiautomatic. “Babe, you couldn’t have given me a little warning?” Stiles whines.

“You told me to take a backseat on this one, remember?” Stiles can almost see Derek shrugging. “And for the record, you are _never_ getting me into that lingerie. Just no.”

Well, _someone_ is salty as fuck.

“You still there, Number Seven?”

Stiles hears a whimper.

“Good boy. Stay.”

Numbers Nine, Ten, Eleven, and Twelve are the next ones to go down, but Stiles takes a bullet to the shoulder in the process. “God _damn_ it!”

Thirteen through Twenty go down in a spray of bullets. When his left Beretta runs out of bullets, one of them get a lucky shot in straight to his forehead. Ironically, those hurt the least of any other gunshot wound because of the lack of nerve endings up there.

_Or the lack of brain cells._

**Don’t be a dick.**

Whatever the case, Stiles just reloads without missing a beat and goes back to shooting. When Number Twenty finally falls, he turns back to Number Seven.

“You know,” he says, poking one index finger into the bullet in his skull and the other in his shoulder before digging them out. “It does _hurt_ when you guys shoot me.”

The man’s eyes widen, pupils dilated from pain and terror as Stiles drops the bloody shells on his broken kneecap.

“So,” he says with a smile that’s entirely covered by his mask. “Where can I find your boss? I’m two bodies short.”

Number Seven just stares at him in terror and doesn’t answer, so Stiles picks him up and slings him over his shoulder roughly. The man _screeches._

(Seriously Sadie, where are you pulling these words from?)

(Shut up Stiles, they’re good words.)

“Tell me where your boss is, Seven, or I start jumping up and down,” he says brightly.

_No need for drastic measure just yet. Reign it in._

**Nah, let loose a little. The sooner we finish this job, the higher the chance of us getting laid tonight.**

_There's almost zero chance of us getting laid tonight._

**Optimism is a virtue.**

_So is chastity._

Stiles cackles. The slightest movement of his back bounces Number Seven around a little and the man whimpers in pain.

“Okay, okay!” he yells finally. “He's up-- upstairs. _En la sala de emergencia._ The-- The panic room.”

Stiles sets Number Seven down and peers down at his face through the mask. “Good boy. What's your name?”

“M--Marcelo.”

“You know what, Marcelo? I like you. So I'm just gonna end it here, _comprende_?” Stiles puts his left Beretta back in the holster and Marcelo looks relieved.

Stiles shoots him in the head, because hey. Dude still fucking shot him.

“Twenty five,” he says to himself triumphantly. “Now for Mister Panic Room.”

**And make it quick. If we wanna do this, we gotta do it fast so we still make the reservations.**

_Shit! We're gonna be late!_

**For a very important date.**

_Was that really necessary?_

**Absolutely.**

_Burn in hell._

Derek's voice crackles through the comm. “Deadpool, if you fuck around and we miss dinner tonight because of it, you're not getting laid for a _month_. Understood?”

And if Stiles squeaks and sprints the last couple of flights of stairs, neither of them comment on it.

(Besides you, of course, Sadie.)

(Fuck you, man. I'm the author.)

(Yeah yeah, hail the all powerful author, yada yada yada.)

(Damn right.)

Stiles is glad he carries C4 in his duffel bag. It makes busting open the panic room much easier than it would have been if he had tried using the keypad. Number Twenty One goes down just as easily as the other nineteen and Stiles drags his body downstairs.

“Hey babe, close your eyes and don't open them ‘till I say. I've got a surprise for you,” Stiles says through the comm.

“Do I even want to know?” Derek asks after a long pause.

Stiles giggles. “Of course! Just close ‘em.”

Derek heaves a long suffering sigh, which lets Stiles know that he's done what he's told. Stiles looks around trying to remember where Derek is supposed to be in position and orients himself accordingly before grabbing Number Twenty Six and Number Seven by the ankles and dragging them into position.

It takes a while, but eventually all twenty five bodies are arranged in their proper positions.

_I love it._

**Literally no one cares if you love it. It’s not for you.**

_Fuck off. This is a masterpiece. Stiles, tell him!_

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Both of you, shut up.”

(And stop grinning, Sadie.)

(I can’t help it. You’re all just so much FUN!)

Stiles shrugs, but doesn’t respond. Instead, he climbs the rickety fire escape on the side of the building where Derek is camped out.

He’s sitting in full costume, decked out in leather and Kevlar from the neck down and coated in white paint with his signature black spot over his right eye. There are two gun holsters on each leg, one on each arm, and two on his belt. Several pouches on his belt bulge with unused magazines. His right leg is folded and the other is pulled to his chest, arm draped around it. He’s got his sniper rifle (it’s a Blaser; a Christmas present from Stiles last year) laying next to him, safety on. All of his materials are packed already, since Stiles told him to lay low this time. Derek’s eyes are closed, but there’s no mistaking the irritation on his face.

“Babe?” Stiles murmurs.

Silence. There’s not even a twitch in Derek’s face to show that he heard him.

Stiles gets down on one knee and grabs the hand draped over Derek’s knee with both of his own. “Derek? Baby, please. I know I fucked up.”

Derek opens his eyes to glare at Stiles venomously. “Yeah. You really did.”

“Can I show you your surprise?” Stiles doesn’t dare look into his eyes; he knows the kind of anger and hurt that’ll be there if he does, despite his false bravado. “I think you’re gonna love it.”

The glare doesn’t abate, but Derek nods with a roll of his eyes. “I guess we can’t get any later.”

_SHOT THROUGH THE HEART._

**AND YOU’RE TOO LATE.**

_DARLIN’ YOU GIVE LOVE--_

**A BAD NAME.**

“Oh, fuck off, assholes,” Stiles mutters. Derek blinks at him, but seems to register his ‘talking to the voices tone’ and doesn’t comment.

Stiles moves out of the way, keeping a hold on Derek’s hand as the other man stands up. Instead of rising with him, Stiles shifts his position to kneeling.

He can tell the exact moment that the message registers in Derek’s mind. His face spasms in that adorable way that it does when he’s having emotions and trying not to give them away. Stiles can read confusion,a definite _oh shit_ look, surprise, awe, irritation (oh shit), and surprise again before he settles into a neutral expression. He looks directly at Stiles, who lets go of Derek’s hands with one of his own in order to take off his mask.

The sun is going down and the smell of gunpowder is in the air. He’s on one knee and his suit is covered in holes and blood. Below them, twenty six bodies spell out MARRY ME.

“I mean there weren’t enough people for me to make a question mark and I know I probably should have cut a few in half because _wow_ , it sounds like an order now doesn’t it? But it’s really a question and I was gonna ask you at dinner but then you were so mad that dinner might not have happened and I wasn’t gonna have another opportunity--” He’s rambling; he knows he’s rambling but he just can’t seem to stop.

“Stiles.”

_Please say yes. Please say yes._

**Please say yes. Please say yes.**

“Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well... That went a in direction I didn't expect... But hey, it was cute!
> 
> So... yeah. Let me know what you think and come find me on tumblr @look-im-just-trash


End file.
